


A Maze in the Garden

by Josselin



Series: Maze in the Garden [1]
Category: Captive Prince - S. U. Pacat
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 05:56:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Josselin/pseuds/Josselin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If my brother runs as you approach him,” said Auguste, “it is because Laurent enjoys being chased.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Maze in the Garden

The manor near Arles boasted an elaborate garden. The rear of the garden was an enormous staircase, which at the top rewarded the persistent climber with a view of the entirety of the gardens and the manor house itself, all set against a beautiful backdrop of the sky and the lake. Damen and the Crown Prince Auguste reached the top of the stairs in time to watch a ship come in to the harbor. The sails were the same color as the clouds in the sky, and the ship floated across the lake seeming only slightly faster than the clouds moved toward the horizon.

Damen nodded attentively as the Crown Prince Auguste gestured towards various points of interest. The house was centered in front of them at the foot of the staircase, a giant building of stone and glass. Auguste remarked on several of the architectural features, but the main impression that the place left on Damen was that it was completely indefensible. Auguste chattered on amiably, indicating the stables where they'd embarked on their hunting trip earlier in the day, the elaborate silken tent on the front lawn where the servants were setting up the evening meal, and a maze of shaped greenery. From the top of the staircase it was possible to see the entire maze. There were almost a dozen dead ends that only contained a cleverly shaped evergreen bush, but the center of the maze held a marble bench and a fountain. Damen could see a gardener at work in one of the east passageways, trimming away stray branches that did not conform to the desired shape.

The view, to Damen, was representative of his entire impression of Vere, which was that it was beautiful and yet artificial at the same time. In Akielos one might climb up a mountainside to appreciate a particularly spectacular view, but one did not construct a staircase mountain in the garden. In Akielos Damen might have admired the beauty of a particular tree, say if it were one of the ancient ones that had been growing olives since the beginning of time, but he would have admired it as it was, not carved it into the shape of some exotic animal. And in Akielos if he had had enough stone to construct such a manor and a staircase, it would have likely gone into reinforcing a fortress along the Delpha frontier, instead. The luxury of a manor retreat with no purpose besides recreation for the Arles court was still somewhat astonishing, even at the close of Damen’s three-week diplomatic visit. 

Auguste clucked his tongue disapprovingly, and Damen followed his gaze to construction of the golden silk tent on the lawn. A blond figure had appeared amongst the servants assembling the tent, and the scene, from the top of the stairs, resembled what happened if one poked a beehive with a stick. 

“Is that your brother?” Damen asked, as Auguste sighed to himself.

“Yes,” said Auguste. “I hope he is not causing too much trouble, but that is probably a foolish wish, I am sure he is plotting something.”

Damen smiled. He had gotten along well with Auguste throughout his visit, finding the Crown Prince forthright, charming, and eager to be a good host. 

His first impression of Auguste’s younger brother had been that the prince had startlingly compelling looks – the prince having just come of age the prince’s looks seemed to be a point of gossipy and titillated conversation amongst almost all members of the Veretian court. Damen’s second impression of the prince was that he had an asp’s tongue, as Laurent had caught Damen staring at him during their first meeting, and proceeded to insult Damen in Akielon. Damen had been more amused by the quaintness of Laurent’s accent than insulted by his words, which had dismissed Damen’s clothing as that of a country bumpkin and then continued on to infer that Damen probably had rural tastes in all areas including a sexual proclivity for sheep. Auguste did not speak Akielon as well as his brother did, but seemed to have caught the sense of his comments from the words he knew or perhaps from Laurent’s tone, and had attempted to salvage their introductions with his characteristic good humor.

“One of the servants told me it is your brother’s collection in the library – I shall have to ask him about some of his choices,” said Damen. He had been served breakfast in the library most mornings, and as an early riser he found it pleasant to peruse the shelves in the morning light as he waited for the meal to begin. The books were carefully shelved and he was sure it was the manor servants who kept them free of dust on their wooden shelves, but it was not likely the servants who had read several of the volumes so many times that the page edges were frayed.

“Ah, asking him about his books, you will find your way to his heart for certain,” said Auguste, smiling.

Damen laughed slightly, shaking his head. “I would like to ask him about his books, but there is no need to worry that I will steal your brother’s heart, cousin. He is not fond of me, and indeed goes out of his way to disappear when I approach him.” This had been true throughout Damen’s visit. Laurent would appear, unadorned and simply dressed amongst all of the finery of the court, and when Damen turned to ask him a question he would only see a glimpse of the prince weaving amongst silks and velvets on the other side of the dance floor, or through a rose arbor on the other side of the garden.

“No, cousin,” said Auguste. “My brother is fond of you; I can tell.”

Damen raised a skeptical eyebrow, not questioning Auguste’s assessment in words, but letting his doubt show on his face.

“If my brother runs as you approach him,” said Auguste, “it is because Laurent enjoys being chased.”

The beehive of activity around the partially assembled golden tent on the lawn seemed to have settled into a new pattern that was apparently to Laurent’s satisfaction, as he was standing in supervision on the lawn. Damen looked down at him, Auguste’s words echoing through his head, and it was as though suddenly the wind shifted.

 

Damen tested his new strategy when he and Auguste came in from the gardens. He spotted a glimpse of Laurent’s fair hair through one of the glass windows into the library, and made his excuses to Auguste, who waved him off with a knowing smile. In the library, Damen ignored the caustic words in Laurent’s greeting and focused on the view he had had of Laurent attempting to discretely watch his approach through the library window. 

“Cousin,” said Damen, “I was just telling Auguste that I wished to speak with you about some of your collection.” And here, feeling somehow as though he were on the sands in a swordfight rather than in the midst of an opulent Veretian library, he made his move. Rather than keeping a respectful distance in polite response to Laurent’s words and taut posture, Damen moved closer, and rested a gentle hand on Laurent’s upper arm. The gesture was nothing violent, nothing Laurent couldn’t have shrugged off in a moment, even if he hadn’t the kind of sword calluses on his palms that Damen had seen he did. It was simply a touch, to say, ‘I am here, next to you.’

Damen waited to be rebuffed, insulted as a barbarian, rejected when the prince bristled like one of the strange porcupines Auguste had shown Damen in the menagerie. It was only because Damen was paying such close attention to Laurent’s reaction that he caught the fleeting look of satisfaction on the prince’s face. By the time Laurent had turned his face fully to Damen – not moving his arm out of the pressure of Damen’s hand – his usual haughty expression was in place. “Oh, can you read?” said Laurent.

“Is that what these strange objects are for,” said Damen. “I thought they were some odd form of Veretian décor.”

“I suppose you prefer to decorate with animal carcasses,” said Laurent.

“Don’t be foolish,” said Damen. “There would be such a stench. We only decorate with the bones.”

The corner of Laurent’s mouth twitched.

“As an example,” said Damen, “I have a narwhal skeleton in my bedroom.”

“A narwhal,” said Laurent, sounding out the unfamiliar word. “Is that a particularly ferocious beast?”

“Yes, I am surprised there is not one in your menagerie,” said Damen. “It is a fish the size of a small boat. They only dwell in the icy waters of the far north, and it is particularly known for it’s enormous–" he paused “—horn.”

The suggestiveness of his words was not lost on Laurent; it was tame in comparison to how lewd Veretian conversation could become even at breakfast. Laurent looked as though it were taking some effort to keep his expression dubious. “You keep a ferocious fish with a large horn in your bedroom.”

“Just the skeleton of one,” said Damen, and he turned the conversation to the three tomes of philosophic questions he had seen from the bindings were particular favorites of Laurent’s. 

They were only in the library for another quarter of an hour before one of the servants rang a bell to remind them to dress for dinner – in Vere, each meal required a change of costume. But Laurent did not disappear, he allowed Damen to guide him around the library and ask him about several of the books, and Damen’s hand stayed warm on his arm the entire time.

 

Once Damen was suitably attired, he returned to the gardens and the silken tent for the evening banquet. He sat next to Laurent during the meal, and their topics of conversation included Laurent questioning him on the similarities between a narwhal – an exotic fish from the North, Laurent told the court ladies who were hanging on his every word – and the marzipan unicorn that was presented for dessert.

“Oh, a narwhal is much larger,” said Damen, which caused several of the court ladies to gasp in coquettish surprise, and Laurent to smile back at him, pleased with Damen’s performance in the game.

Laurent left the table before the dessert course was cleared, but Damen understood now, and made his own excuses to Lady Vannes and followed Laurent deeper into the garden. Laurent paused near the entrance to the green shrubbery maze, ostensibly to brush a speck of dirt off of his clothing. Knowing the game, Damen could see now that this hesitation was an invitation to follow.

Damen recalled back to his view of the maze from above earlier that afternoon, and drawing upon that memory and tantalizing glimpses of Laurent through green walls, he navigated to the center of the garden. 

He became slightly lost toward the very center. The garden had become dimmer as the sun touched down upon the lake, torches lighting the banqueting tent but only the moon lighting the darkening maze. Damen took a wrong turning, and spied Laurent in the center of the maze lounging on the marble bench, while Damen himself was confronted with only a wall of green and a bush shaped like a bird.

Laurent was laughing quietly, either at Damen’s predicament or at the soft curse Damen had given when he realized it. Laurent probably thought he was going to go back, to retrace his steps until the point at which he must have chosen the wrong green passage-way, but Damen had seen that the best path between himself and his goal was a weak spot in one of the hedges, and he shouldered his way through the shrubbery, emerging in front of Laurent only slightly scratched and shaking leaves out of his hair.

Laurent laughed more openly, now, and if Damen thought he had been beautiful when standing haughtily on the top of the steps when Damen had first came to Vere, he was even more so laughing genuinely in the moonlight. Laurent stretched out a hand to help Damen brush leaves off of his collar. “I suppose I should have expected no less from a famed Akielon hunter.”

Damen ran his fingers through his own hair to shake out the last of the greenery. “Are you frightened, cousin?” said Damen. “I have hunted you, and now you are trapped with nowhere else to run,” he gestured around the circular center of the maze. 

“I am exactly where I wish to be,” said Laurent, looking up at him. Damen was several inches taller than Laurent, who seemed to be making the most of this in a flirtatious look through his eyelashes. 

Elsewhere in the garden, musicians began to play, some sort of Veretian harmony using stringed instruments.

Damen reached out a hand and rested it on Laurent’s shoulder, enjoying the build of the moment, the smells of the garden, the light strains of the music, and the gentle flutter of Laurent’s hair in the night air.

“If you require dead animals for inspiration,” said Laurent, “I think I passed a squirrel in the—" but he did not finish his words, because Damen had pulled him into a kiss.

Kissing Laurent was the same mix of contradictions that chasing him had been. Laurent pulled away, slightly, but made a noise of pleasure when Damen only stepped in closer and pulled Laurent in with a firmer grasp on his shoulder. Laurent closed his lips only to let Damen tease them open gently with his tongue, he pushed Damen down to sit on the marble bench only to smile broadly when Damen pulled Laurent in to straddle his lap.

Damen enjoyed the pleasures of Laurent’s mouth and his growing arousal until the musicians stopped and began to retune their instruments for the second set. He took a breath, appreciating the weight of Laurent on his thighs and the caress of Laurent’s fingers through his hair. 

“I like you,” said Damen. 

Laurent smiled, and traced a pink scratch on Damen’s cheek from when he had burst through the green wall. “I suppose you are all right, for a barbarian,” said Laurent, as though this were a very great concession.

“Let me take you to bed,” said Damen.

“And I thought you had gotten it,” said Laurent, still playing with Damen’s hair.

Damen took a breath, looked into Laurent’s face, felt as though the wind had changed yet again, and nodded. “I am taking you to bed,” he corrected. “I have caught you, you are my prize, and I am taking you to bed,” and Laurent rewarded him with a slow, pleased nod. 

Laurent didn’t protest Damen easing Laurent off of his own lap, or Damen taking his hand and leading him out of the center of the maze, though he didn’t offer any advice when Damen encountered three separate dead ends (a fish, a snake, and some sort of four-footed beast) in his attempts to get out. Damen cursed when they came up on the third dead end, and Laurent simply laughed again. “You could help,” said Damen. “Else I might become frustrated and decide to have you here on the grass next to the—whatever this is.” He pointed at the topiary beast.

Laurent seemed amused. “Barbarians are so adventurous.” Laurent might not have objected to sex in a secluded corner of the garden; he hadn’t blinked an eye when others in the Veretian court had sex in far more public locations earlier in Damen’s visit. But Damen himself wanted to enjoy his prize in private and in bed at his leisure, and persevered until he found the two columns that marked the entrance of the maze. 

Damen kept hold of Laurent’s hand as he headed for the manor house. They skirted the edge of the remains of the banquet, Damen tugging Laurent’s hand to guide him around tables and the poles of the banquet tent. Damen caught Auguste’s gaze when he spotted Auguste sitting over in the torchlight near the musicians, and Auguste smiled and nodded at him, and Damen nodded back. Laurent was looking out at the lake, and when Damen tugged on his hand again, he gave the same small pleased smile to Damen that Auguste had bestowed from across the room, and Damen smiled helplessly in return.

 

They retreated to Damen’s chambers in the guest wing of the manor, if only because Damen did not know where Laurent’s chambers were and it did not seem in keeping with the game to coax Laurent to confess. Instead, Damen nodded at his own guards at the door to his room and then suffered through Laurent’s acerbic commentary on his barbarian things before getting it yet again, and realizing that Laurent talking was Laurent asking to be chased, and quieting him with a kiss. 

In some ways, Laurent was as far from the demure rounded beauties Damen was accustomed to his slave master Adrastus supplying him with as could be imagined. Damen’s bedslaves would never send a beehive of servants scuttling to correct some perceived problem with the banqueting tent, or speak to him with the kind of venomous words that Laurent seemed to enjoy. But Laurent did respond well to direction. Damen told him to quiet, and to hold his arms above his head while Damen undid the ties of his clothes. When the ties of Laurent’s clothing were loose enough that Damen could pull the clothes to puddle on the floor, Damen pushed him down on the bed. 

Damen used his mouth to follow the paths his fingers had traced in unlacing Laurent’s clothing, and then he used his mouth to pleasure Laurent, and when Damen directed, “Now,” Laurent responded beautifully yet again. 

He waited while Laurent caught his breath, stroking Laurent’s hair gently and feeling not like he had caught some ferocious beast, but more that he had captured a soft-feathered bird, that the bird was resting in his hand but might at any moment flutter and escape. He thought if he took his hands off of Laurent that Laurent might slip away yet again, but when he did sit back on the bed to remove his own clothing, Laurent only watched through half-lidded eyes. So Damen trusted to how the evening had been going, and in a deepened voice, said, “Turn over,” and Laurent did.

 

The other side of the bed was cool when Damen awoke the next morning to a songbird outside in the garden. He let in one of the servants to pour a basin of water and help him to dress for breakfast, and he arrived for the meal down in the library to find Laurent and Auguste already sipping warm beverages from delicate porcelain cups.

“Good morning,” said Damen, accepting his own cup from one of the servants.

“Good morning, cousin,” said Auguste. “The weather is favorable for the begin of your journey.” It was true; the air was warm and the sky only teased with white puffy clouds that filtered the sunlight. “Laurent was just telling me that you have invited him to Ios for a reciprocal diplomatic visit.”

“Yes, our cousin has promised to show me a narwhal,” said Laurent, pronouncing narwhal nasally in two completely separate syllables. “It is a ferocious fish; we have nothing like it in Vere,” he told Auguste.

There had been many words spoken the evening before, none of them had been about diplomatic visits. From the knowing expression on Auguste’s face as he regarded Damen, Damen suspected that Auguste knew this. But Damen nodded. “Yes, you have been so gracious to me that I must return the favor.”

“I am so pleased by the good relations between our nations,” said Auguste, but Damen was distracted by a clink of the porcelain and the glimpse of Laurent disappearing around one of the shelves in the library, and the game was on again.

**Author's Note:**

> [All of the author's Captive Prince fanfic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Josselin/pseuds/Josselin/works?fandom_id=3516977), [come follow me on tumblr](http://josselinkohl.tumblr.com/)


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